Harry Potter and the Rites of Blood
by Daedros27
Summary: Harry Potter's been in the adventuring game his whole life. They say he rediscovered Atlantis. They say he apparated to the moon and back. They say he delved deep into the abandoned tunnels under Gringotts and found the treasure of a forgotten king. But his greatest challenge may be yet to come, with the return of the Dark Lord - and the arrival of war.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: An AU whose divergence points will become clear later on. For now, all that's necessary to know is that Harry is older, and that this is in no way canon-compliant for anything occurring after the death of the Potters. Rated M for language and violence._

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

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I stood in the cemetery, whistling merrily. The moon was full, the sky clear, but the night dark. A cool breeze whistled through the naked branches of the trees surrounding the graveyard. Before me, a circle was inscribed upon the ground, etched in and filled with salt, and at its center was a small pile of ashes, stained red. It was a ritual, and a dark one. I was impressed that anybody still knew how to perform it. Presumably Voldemort was the one who had rediscovered it. Brilliant bastard.

Peter Pettigrew's corpse lay on the ground beside me, bloodied and broken. It had probably been a poor choice on his part, fighting me. Peter Pettigrew had lived his life as a coward, hiding behind more powerful wizards – I had dominated my life. Others hid behind _me_. Ironic, really; his cowardice made him brave, in the end.

Well, not really, but close enough for a poet.

Rituals are strange things and it's necessary to be very clear about what's going to happen before you start one. Some of them are straightforward, and spell out just what they want you to sacrifice – others make you guess and infer and essentially shoot blindly in the dark. I once sacrificed no less than six Death Eaters in increasingly gruesome ways in six attempts to make a summoning ritual work, and in the end it had turned out that all that had to be sacrificed was a lemon drop.

Back to my point, however: rituals are strange, and that is something that both Peter Pettigrew and I should have taken into account. Peter because he agreed to assist Voldemort in this stupidity. Me for getting in the middle of it. Peter's agreement had been a contract; his body and blood were promised to some horror older than the soil we stood on – alive or dead. He hadn't known, of course, and Voldemort had probably been coercing him; Peter was never known for his intelligence or strength of will.

Of course, I shouldn't say anything; by killing Peter and interrupting the ritual, I had initiated an unspoken contract as well.

Which was why I now found myself standing in a graveyard, whistling a jaunty tune, and counting the minutes until midnight so that I could resurrect Lord Voldemort. How I even knew the steps to this particular ritual was actually a very long story involving three Egyptian pyramids, several not-yet-dead mummies, and five Veela who weren't willing to take no for an answer, but the important thing was that I _did_ know it, and so knew that the flesh had to be offered at five till midnight.

To complete this section of the ritual, Peter would have only had to place his hand inside the circle. Unfortunately, that was contingent upon his life. The demon would have taken his life and been entirely satisfied, no special steps needed – there's power in the unspent life of a wizard. Because I had unexpectedly borrowed Peter's remaining years, a bit more preparation was necessary, a bit more finesse.

Changing the tune of my song slightly, I flicked my wand and conjured a silver knife. I knelt at Peter's side and tapped his arm with my wand, making it hover solidly in the air before me. My other hand, wielding the knife, moved smoothly, with no wasted motion, slicing the robes from his arm, then busily filleting his flesh.

It was imperative that none of Peter's bone entered the mix. I didn't actually know the name of the being that was being bargained with, but I did know that he didn't like his meals crunchy.

For a brief moment, whilst my hands were occupied, I imagined changing the terms of the deal when the demon arrived – but that rarely ended well. There were also advantages to Voldemort regaining corporeal form that couldn't be ignored, such as his soon-to-be-newly-rediscovered ability to die. Last time he'd had fail-safes in place – this time I'd make damn sure he didn't.

With my thoughts miles away, my hands slipped. The knife sliced into my index finger, and I cursed quietly, moving that hand well away from Peter's corpse. If Peter's bone would mess up the ritual, I had no doubt my blood would be approximately ten times worse.

I murmured a congealing charm, and the wound closed over, leaving me again with two hands to work with. The delay had cost me seconds, but if I was timing it anywhere near right, I should still have time. Details, rituals are all in the details.

I finished separating a section of Peter's arm from the bone, and carried it over to the circle. Poor Peter – 'armless in life and 'armless in death, am I right?

I made a mental note to tell that one to Voldemort, when I resurrected him – he'd appreciate my wit. If this ritual had called for evisceration I could've made a 'gutless' pun as well, and it almost seemed like a shame I was going to miss the opportunity.

You can't have everything in life, I suppose.

I levitated Peter's flesh into the circle, beginning to chant softly under my breath as I dropped it on the ash pile. The words were gibberish. They had probably meant something a long time ago, but not now – not to me. To the being I was about to call, though... that was a different matter entirely. I could feel the shape of the words as they left my lips and I could taste their weight. Each syllable felt like vomiting fire, burning hotter and hotter as I soldiered onward to the finale.

The final word was the most crucial in that it named the demon, and it was always an extraordinarily nasty word. These words were fire in my throat; the end word would be worse. _Throat-rippin'-good_, my wise old mentor would have said.

I don't think he actually ever did say that, but he probably would have if he'd thought of it.

I spoke the second to last word, then paused, and an eerie silence fell around the cemetery. No crickets, no breeze, just perfect dead silence all around.

Speaking the demon's name into that silence felt like killing something innocent, but something creepy enough that you don't really feel all that guilty about it and sort of think maybe it wasn't that innocent anyway.

The demon's name sounded something like _Har'trai_, simplified. Properly pronounced, it felt like expelling a thousand tiny blades from my throat, tearing and clawing its way out. My mouth didn't escape its fury; my tongue was covered in tiny lacerations, and my cheeks felt as if they had been shredded.

The word seemed to hang in the air for longer than a normal series of sounds, but I wasn't focused on that; I had tilted my head forward in an effort to keep the blood draining out of my mouth rather than down my windpipe. Drowning in your own blood is a terribly uncomfortable and embarrassing way to go, and so I wanted to avoid it if possible.

Given a minute with my wand, my throat would be, if not like new, at least patched up decently enough until I could get it properly healed. It's a very poor idea to use magic anywhere near demons however and so I couldn't risk it until after the transaction was completed.

This was one of the better-designed rituals I knew about, even if its purposes were a bit questionable. It was designed in such a way that no verbal communication was needed with the demon after it was summoned, which was good in this case.

I could feel the magical shochwave as the demon materialized but didn't look up. Most demons are fairly business-minded sorts but some are a bit strange and you never know what they might do. I had one decide that I was her soul mate once, which I might not have been especially opposed to - she was a lust-based demon, after all - but for the fact that she wanted us to live our life of bliss in a hell dimension which, while like a vacation in Tijuana for her, was a tad deadly for me. I still can't quite remember how I escaped, but in the end I turned up six months later, naked and sunburnt in the middle of the Himalayas and was found by a band of nomadic tribespeople who thought I was the reincarnation of their goddess in male form.

Lost my train of thought there. Ah, yes - as educational as that experience had been, I didn't have any real desire to repeat it and so I studiously avoided any sort of contact with the demon. A hand extended into my vision - a normal hand, with a very faint red glow. This demon wasn't one of the typical pretentious types, then.

It took the flesh offered delicately, almost gingerly, and the hand exited my vision. An undefinable sound split the air, and wind began whipping through the cemetery, though I couldn't feel a thing. Eye of the storm, and all that. I began counting seconds. You can always count on demons to be very timely creatures which is a great asset when conducting rituals.

A flash lit the area, violet-tinged, as I hit _five_. A tearing sound acompanied it, but the sound continued until I reached _seven_, at which point it, the wind, and hopefully the demon all disappeared.

I looked up to see the demon gone, Voldemort in his place. Demon for a demon, there was a joke in there somewhere. Voldemort was naked, which wasn't especially attractive, and his skin was a deathly white-grey. He opened his eyes, and I could see that they were crimson, and slitted - snake eyes.

I drew my wand and tapped it to my throat, hand moving blindingly fast, and the damage caused by the demon's name was healed. Voldemort, reacting instantly despite only just regaining his form, rolled to his side and behind a gravestone. Throat now marginally functional, I croaked a Russian incantation and obliterated the stone, throwing Voldemort back a good ten feet.

The _fucker_ landed on his _feet_, and took off _running_.

I gave chase. It's always a bit of a decision, chasing after somebody or not when dueling them, because it's nearly impossible to aim a wand while running. In this case, though, Voldemort was just entirely too _fast_ for me not to follow.

It was also looking like he might be too fast for me to catch. That meant it was time to take a risk. I slid to a stop, glanced at where Voldemort was going, and twisted on the spot, disappearing with a _crack_.

Apparition is actually a very easy sort of thing to do and most people have some innate talent for it. It's because of this that most don't tray to develop that at all. People aren't impressed by somebody who's awesome at Apparating, because it's just not as sexy as dueling. That's why I never bring up my prodigious Apparition skills at parties; it makes for very dull conversation. After all, most people couldn't care less about landing within a half-inch of your destination, or arriving so fast you almost go back in time.

I could do both.

I reappeared in exactly in front of Voldemort, so close that he almost gored himself on my wand. Before he could do anything, he was bound hand and foot, and falling on top of me.

This was, of course, the moment when six successive _pop_s heralded the arrival of the Order of the Phoenix.

It's a very awkward situation to explain, laying on the ground with a naked and bound Dark Lord on top of you.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Update! A bit shorter than the last chapter, but the next one should come a bit quicker. Hope you enjoy it, read and review._

_Many thanks to those who reviewed/followed last chapter. You know who you are, and you are all awesome._

* * *

It turned out that I didn't need to explain myself after all. Apparently Voldemort was slightly stronger than your average gentleman, in addition to being faster and more agile. The ropes I had conjured held him for about three seconds, long enough for me to look away at the approaching Order members, and then he burst free.

See, _this_ is why you should always read the fine print when it comes to rituals.

He also disapparated with a sharp _crack_.

I blinked. Stared at the spot where he'd disappeared. Turned around to face the approaching Order members.

"Harry!" Dumbledore hurried toward me, Elder Wand extended before him. "What happened here?" His gaze was a perfect mixture of concern and anger, and I felt like I was five again and had just set his sock drawer on fire and burnt off my eyebrows in the process (which only happened two or three times, to be fair).

"It's kind of a long story," I hedged, glancing around. "I - wait, is that sulfur I smell?"

Dumbledore's eyes widened and he threw himself to the side, behind a gravestone. I didn't bother with any acrobatics, spinning and twisting my wand in front of me, a silver shield appearing in the air. It was fortunate that I did, because as I turned to face the threat I was engulfed in a torrent of flame blossoming from the hands of a demon. Judging by the fact it still stood in my ritual form, it was probably a fair guess that this fellow was my good friend _Har'trai_, back for seconds.

Voldemort hadn't run after all, the tenacious bastard.

I could hear Dumbledore chanting behind me. He was preparing a banishing rite – Dumbledore was always quick on the uptake. I needed to hold the demon and Voldemort off long enough for it to take.

The other Order members I couldn't consider. They hadn't moved fast enough. Already my wand was weaving counterspells to the demon's hellfire, and even I wasn't as fast as it was. They had either run or died. I hoped for the former.

The demon eased up on the hellfire, and I dropped the shield, sending a barrage of curses after it. I didn't go for the deadliest spells I know; the deadliest spells are the ones everyone knows how to counter, especially milennia-old demons. No, instead I went for creative – a Mongolian genital-severing hex, an Atlantean surgical curse used to remove eyes, and several South American curses of general misfortune.

And at least one of those last ones must have hit, because the demon took a step toward me, tripped on a rock, and fell on its face.

Now was the time for deadly, but I was impeded by the fact that Voldemort full-on tackled me.

"What did you offer it?" I gasped as he pinned me, wand arm held over my head. Voldemort smiled, a mouth full of razors.

"Your soul, Harry Potter," he said.

I couldn't help it; I burst out laughing. Voldemort seemed bemused, and simply stared creepily at me.

"I'd explain why that's so funny, chuckles, but I've got to go. _Expulso!_"

Just a plain old Latin spell, but coming from my second, hidden wand, it did a very nice job of blasting Voldemort across the cemetery.

The demon appeared to still be trying to get up when Dumbledore finished his banisher, pressing a bloody hand against the tombstone he had engraved the necessary sigils into. It screamed, threw its head back, and pure fire exited its eyes and mouth before its entire form turned to ash. Poor bastard never had a chance.

I could see Voldemort's unmoving form on the other side of the cemetery and I immediately began casting every binding spell I knew on him. It's a bad idea to just use rope, after all.

Just recently I had a Dark Lord escape because he broke free of rope bindings, don'cha know.

I floated the newly-bound Voldemort over to Dumbledore, who was checking up on the other Order members.

"Well, they don't look too crispy, at least!" I said brightly.

"Severus has fairly severe facial burns," Dumbledore said.

I nodded knowingly. "It's the grease in his hair. I've been warning him it was a fire hazard for years now."

Snape moaned in pain, sounding vaguely irritated, but I waved him off. "Shut up, Snape. I've burned myself worse than that cooking dinner."

Dumbledore sighed. "That's hardly surprising, considering you've burned down no less than three separate houses whilst attempting to make dinner."

"Have I ever mentioned how much it impresses me that you can carry on witty banter and do nonverbal healing spells at the same time?" I asked rhetorically. "Oh, and hey – I got Voldemort. Can you take him to the Ministry for me?"

"You're fully capable of taking him yourself," Dumbledore said, placing four small portkeys to St. Mungo's on each of the Order members and watching as they vanished in a flash of blue light. "Nicholas and I were busy when the wards I placed on this place tripped."

"Didn't need to know that," I said in a singsong voice. Dumbledore simply stared at me, bemused.

"I doubt Perenelle would appreciate it if we were... _busy_ in that sense, Harry," he said. "Also, it strikes me as interesting that you've decided now is an appropriate time to – how do they say it? – take the mickey out of me?" I raised my eyebrows in silent question, and he elaborated. "Considering your own compromising situation earlier, of course."

I blinked. "Yeah. Um. I was hoping you missed that part."

"I did not." Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled amusement, then his face grew more serious. "This was very irresponsible, Harry. At the very least, you could have called for backup before attempting something so dangerous."

"Heh... I was on kind of a tight schedule. I mean, I just found out about this by accident, as Pettigrew was starting to summon that thing, and then I kind of had to keep on time." I snapped my fingers. "Speaking of which, I really ought to get back to France."

"Not just yet," Dumbledore said. "What kind of accident?"

"It was a Splinching thing." I noticed Dumbledore's eyes rake over me quickly, ascertaining all visible body parts were present, and hastily added, "not my Splinching, exactly, but one of my mates had a few too many and tried to Apparate a little too far and – "

Dumbledore interrupted, looking mildly impressed. "He scattered himself all the way to England... from France?"

"I know, right?" I grinned. "But anyway, I was looking for some of his essential bits – he got little flashes of the places he dropped, you know, like they do – and popped up here, and Pettigrew is chanting and... then things just kind of snowballed."

Dumbledore massaged the bridge of his nose. "You do realize, I hope, the danger of returning Voldemort to his body? If he had possessed a wand tonight, you might well be dead."

"I could have taken him," I protested. I could have, too. Probably. Most likely. I mean... like eighty percent certain. Seventy-five. "And you can't kill people unless they have a body. Or at least, not typically."

Dumbledore shook his head. "It worked out for the best, in the end," he said. "I am... rather surprised that it went as easily as it did. But pleased. I will take Voldemort to the Ministry, Harry; do continue searching for your friend. Now that I consider it, I saw an eye rolling across Nicholas' floor before I left. I assumed it was just one of Nicholas' stock, but you might go check."

I blinked. "Um. Nicholas keeps a _stock_ of human eyes? I... that is so creepy I don't even have a good joke about it."

"Is it hard to see past it?" deadpanned Dumbledore.

I groaned. "That was bad. Even by my standards, that was really bad. That's probably a good sign that I need to leave now, so... thanks for your help."

"Of course, my boy," Dumbledore said fondly, and I twisted on the spot and disappeared with a _crack_.

Craig's body parts weren't going to wait around all night, after all, especially if certain psychotic alchemists were looking to make stew out of them.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Busy as can be lately, what with heading off to college next week. Hopefully I'll still get time to write even as I'm slaving away at my degree. Anyway, major thanks to everyone who's favorited, reviewed, and followed – you're all awesome._

_Toss me a review, if you have a minute. I'd love to hear what you think._

_Disclaimer: There must be some kind of way out of here..._

It hadn't been all that hard to find the rest of Craig, just time-consuming. I still wasn't entirely sure how he'd managed to lose almost everything not absolutely integral to his body in such an impressively dispersed manner, but I suspected it had to do with the excellent firewhiskey he'd been drinking. Nonetheless, impressive spread or not, I managed to track down everything he needed, even down to his earlobes.

Craig did now have mismatched eyes, however, as Nicholas had used one of them already. I hadn't asked what for, and he hadn't said, which suited me just fine since I wanted to be able to sleep nights. Craig was a bit tetchy about it, but I just reminded him that it was _his_ fault that he got splinched in the first place and that if he didn't like it then he could try hopping around England looking for his own arse next time.

Reassembly went similarly smoothly. The nice thing about Splinching is that your body parts don't quite get removed when it happens They're still attached, but they sort of aren't at the same time. It's complicated to explain and involves a lot of math and confusing things like imaginary space, but the end result is that fixing a Splinching comes down to just a few simple spells and Latin modifiers. The different eye was a tad more challenging, but far from impossible.

I had been following a legend in France when Craig had Splinched himself. I had heard it whispered in dark corners in the kind of places where nobody tells you their name, caught it being passed between witches and wizards alike in awed tones, with an undercurrent of fear flowing beneath it all.

I called it the Legend of the Coven of Extremely Flexible Veela, and had given it top priority as soon as I'd caught wind of it.

However, this Voldemort business was looking to be a bit more important, since there was supposed to be a prophecy involved, as well as the most powerful dark wizard Britain's seen in at least sixty years, so I had reluctantly decided to head back to Britain after reassembling Craig in order to make sure Dumbledore had gotten Voldemort delivered to the Ministry without issue. The Coven of Extremely Flexible Veela would most likely still be in France by the time I got back.

They'd _better_ be, anyway.

I had decided to Floo back to Ministry. I hated the Floo with the kind of singular passion usually reserved for lemon drops. But even _motherfucking lemon drops_ aren't as bad as the Floo. And while I'm discussing it, there is no 'knack' to going through, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a goddamned liar. If you land on your feet, you got lucky. If you land on your face,you were asking for it by taking the Floo anyway.

I always landed on my face, and this time wasn't any sort of exception. I stumbled to the floor in the middle of a very unusually busy Atrium and was tripped over by three wizards before I got the chance to stand up. It probably wouldn't have taken long to stand otherwise, but they were also screaming in a very high-pitched tone which was distracting and irritating.

Standing, I could see Voldemort standing at the other end of the Atrium, the tatters of ropes hanging from his gaunt frame.

He was also naked still.

"Okay, who the _fuck_ used rope to tie up the dangerous Dark wizard!" I thundered, then at a slightly more reasonable volume, "And why did nobody get him some trousers? Seriously, nobody wants to see that..."

"Potter," Voldemort said. He was speaking softly, but his voice still carried over the din. He kept talking, but I recognized the amplification spell he was using and canceled it. There was no real tactical advantage; I just thought it was funny to watch him keep talking for a few seconds before realizing what had happened.

Then he seemed to get angry and give up on talking, and he held a head up in the air by its hair. It had been detached at the neck.

It looked a lot like Dumbledore, and I suddenly felt very very _focused_.

Voldemort had recast his spell, and was talking, and I was listening but not really. He was babbling about claiming a final victory, twirling Dumbledore's wand in his hand like a conductor's baton. My eyes still roamed over the head held in his grasp. Dumbledore's beard trailed down into the air, which told me Voldemort probably hadn't actually cut off his head. Maybe pulled it off. Might have made it pop off; I'd seen a spell that could do that once in Venezuela.

Voldemort was laughing now. He seemed to think it was funny that I'd arrived when I had, moments after Dumbledore died.

Moments after. There was something there. I could almost remember it. A story, a rumor, a joke, something. It was hard to concentrate, because I kept thinking about curses I wanted to use on Voldemort, and there was a drop of crimson beading at the end of Dumbledore's beard that was about ready to drip off.

_Five-second rule, boy, get to 'em fast..._

_Twist the wand to the side while incanting, and the locusts will eat their way out in under a minute._

_A drop, falling – bright red, oxygenated, it hadn't been long._

_...because if you get there fast enough, sometimes..._

_Stress the 'ah' and really try to _feel_ the anger, then just wait for the eyes to explode – _

_...sometimes, you can grab their hand as they go over the edge._

"Potter!" Voldemort was in front of me now, scarcely four feet away. He looked furious, but it was kind of hard to tell with the red snake-eyes. I had a curse on the tip of my tongue, but Dumbledore's head still hung at his side, forgotten for now, and I was running out of time.

Fortunately, I was about sixteen floors above the world's finest solution for giving yourself extra time.

And on that note, an extraordinarily handsome son of a bitch walked in and sent a curse at Voldemort. I averted my eyes from me, because time paradoxes are bad and there's no better way to create one than to hang around past or future versions of yourself, no matter how awesome you may be.

It was good to know that not only did I apparently make it to the room of Time-Turners downstairs, I also survived the next six hours. The more you know...

Voldemort was engaged, dueling future-me. I had to leave, and so I headed for the lift on the other side of the Atrium, dodging stray spells, screaming Ministry employees, and the odd owl dropping. The lift's doors opened automatically as I approached, and I stepped inside.

"Department of Mysteries," I said, and the lift began to move. I wondered if Voldemort had gone through the lower levels yet. Maybe I'd get lucky and he'd have killed all of the Unspeakables. Annoying twats. If it weren't for their stupidity, I'd carry a Time-Turner all the time. But you screw up one little timeline when you're thirteen, and they want to ban you from time-travel forever.

It would also be helpful if the Aurors were busy, because I couldn't remember just what the Statute of Limitations was on indecent exposure. And trespassing. And fraud. And illegal enchantment of Muggle objects. And a bit of murder here and there.

There probably wasn't a statute for the murders, but I was pretty sure they didn't have any proof about any of those, and besides, it couldn't have happened to a nicer group of Death Eaters.

The lift shuddered to a stop, and I ran out of it. Time limits suck, especially when you're not really sure what your limit is and may have already passed it. It was for that reason that I wasted no time in the Dapartment of Mysteries; when confronted with the Spinning Crazy Mindfuck Room (as I like to call it) I jabbed my wand harshly downward, shouting "_Break_!"

There's a weak spot in every enchantment; it's the nature of the beast. I've heard them called a lot of things – keystones, shatterpoints, perfect flaws – but they're all essentially the same: the point in the enchantment where the protective magic is the weakest, and the active magic is the most heavily layered.

Having broken into the Department of Mysteries before, I was intimately familiar with its particular enchantments, and so when I told them to break, they _shattered_. Like glass. Really noisy shattering glass, though, because I'm pretty sure at that moment every alarm in the place went off.

Also, every single door in the room opened simultaneously, and six Unspeakables stepped out.

"Voldemort's upstairs!" I cried. "I came to warn you all!"

I couldn't see under their hoods, but they definitely gave off a distinct air of unimpressed-ness.

"Um. Yeah. Guys. Voldemort is literally upstairs. Might want to go sort that out. Before he murders everyone."

Then they drew their wands.

"_Lumos Maxima!"_ I said, closing my eyes. A flash lit up the room, bright even behind closed lids. I opened my eyes again, blinking away the afterimages burned into my retinas. The unspeakables hadn't reacted, which wasn't exactly ideal since they should have been stumbling about comically by now.

"Oh. So I'm guessing those shadowed hoods aren't just for effect, then?" I wondered how much time was left on my theoretical timer that may-or-may-not have run out. Schrodinger's Timer? There was something wrong with that analogy...

The first spell came from my left, then the room turned into sort of a flashing, blurring, screaming, sobbing mess. Some harsh words were said and some very dirty fighting went on, and at the end of it all I had six Unspeakables trussed up in thick rope. Three were crying, two were stuck to the ceiling, and one was praying.

"Might have been better to go for Voldemort, gents," I said kindly, patting one of the crying ones on the head as I walked past him into the Time Room.

I grabbed the nearest Time-Turner. The maximum amount of Time you can Turn is six hours, and you can't stack Turners. Rules suck, but Time Rules are important because they keep you from breaking important things, like reality.

I Turned that bitch six times, and held on tight.

Six hours to save Dumbledore? Yeah, I could manage that.

I'm Harry fucking Potter, and I don't _lose_.


End file.
